


Father

by lciel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Age Play, Dark, Hatred, Imprisonment, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Suicide, Torture, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: “When shall we three meet again? - When the battle’s lost and won. -That will be ere the set of sun.” (Macbeth)The wind whispers over the bald mountain, in the leafless branches of the dead oak. She snaps up her head, listening, a crooked leer on her mottled lips. /// The weavess takes her revenge on Ciri. Geralt needs Emhyr to save her. But nobody will save the witcher - nor the emperor. ///Short-fic, please take the warnings seriously. This story picks up on some seriously disturbing and destructive stuff in Emhyr's and Geralt's psyche. This piece is significantly darker than what I usually write.





	Father

# 1

 

“When shall we three meet again?”

 The wind whispers over the bald mountain, in the leafless branches of the dead oak.

“In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

The phantom song rises from the depths of the caves, steep cracks in the rock, eaten by the waters, deep down below.

“When the hurly-burly’s done.”

An echo of their voices, reverberating from the twisting roots, clawed into the stone, holding onto the world of the living, full of hatred.

“When the battle’s lost and won.”

She snaps up her head, listening, a crooked leer on her mottled lips.

“That will be ere the set of sun.”

“Where’s the place?” she joins the spirits’ sing-song. Where? Where? Where?

“Upon the heath.”

“There to meet – “

 

The girl awakens.

Sweat pours from her body, the thin white cloth of her shirt soaked and sticking to her form. In the dark, she wanders, anxious, lifting her hand to the empty spot between her collarbones. A flock of ravens squawks outside the hut in which she has been sleeping, where the white wolf still lies in slumber.

That night, unlike the other nights in which the vision has haunted her, she does not go back to sleep.

 

 

 

In the morning, the witcher rises to find her gone. Her note is crumbled in his hand, under a groan of fear. He follows her, riding like the storm on the black stallion, through the thunder, the lightning, the rain - to the mountain, to the deep. Among the roots, he finds her crumbled body. Too late. Vesemir’s old medallion in her hand. Pulse too slow. A mark upon her forehead. More ritual markings on the basalt ground. Chalk and blood, wax and incense. An ornate sealed box with three locks. Runes around the edges.

The Aen Elle steps from the shadows silently. The wolf bares his fangs. They fight. Stabbing words, meant to hurt.

Lover.

Father.

Neither is said. Blame spread. Only when their pain has dulled, the fox and the wolf make peace. For her. To save their swallow.

They examine the mark: ripening moon, full moon, waning moon. The maiden, the mother, the crone. A curse. A raven feather on the floor. A cackling on the wind. Mad. Shrill. Joyful.

Where’s the place?

Upon the heath.

There to meet the end.

 

 

# 2

 

“The symbol of the mother goddess,” the sorceress says, violet eyes haunted.

“The domain of the crone, cast upon the maiden,” the Aen Saevherne adds, thoughtfully.

 

The witcher prowls, restless, irate.

 

“How is it broken?” he rasps, wishing to tear out his brain and awaken from this nightmare.

 

“The mother is the weak link.”

“The opposite symbol is the father.”

 

Find the father. ~~Not you. Not you. Not you.~~

 

 

 

There he is, then. Propelled through space, blasted portals. He curses. The south is shimmering in the heat of the burning sun, blazing off the golden towers. The domain of the father. A place and man he never wished to see again. A place to avoid. He knows he will not escape the emperor’s fury a second time.

Echo.

“Witcher, I do not wish to see you. Ever again.”

Echo. Echo. Echo.

 

He has no choice. Getting an audience is impossible, and yet it happens. The emperor is surrounded by all his glory. Gold and black. The world is burning under his banners.

The emperor’s eyes are cold as ice.

When Geralt breathes her name, the court is dismissed.

“Tell me.” It is not an order. It is words moulding destiny.

 

 

Emhyr regards him with utter disgust. The witcher tries to ignore it. Swallow down the aftertaste of guilt.

(I lied. I lied. I lied.)

“She needs you, your Majesty.”

 

“You will bring her to me.”

It is an order Geralt cannot obey. They are afraid to move her out of the markings.

It takes more time, but Emhyr comes. A portal is opened for him to the peak of the mountain, and he climbs into the deep, secured by strong ropes. To her.

 

“What is needed?” His words are brisk.

 

The Aen Seavherne and the sorceress explain their theory, this time in practical detail. Emhyr nods. Then he steps into the chalk circle, settling down beside his child, and drawing her into his lap with a strength and gentleness that surprises the witcher. Perhaps it should not have. Then the father takes a bottle of goat’s milk that has been prepared, and begins to nurse his daughter. While he cradles her, he begins to hum a lullaby. The words are Nilfgaardian, but the tune is the same in all languages. Ciri begins to suckle.

Geralt looks away when he Emhyr bows to press a kiss to her forehead. He disapproves. Always will, not that he is trying to hide it. When Ciri gasps, he should feel joy, but it is tinged in screaming jealousy. For the man who does not deserve to be what Geralt cannot ever be.

A father.

 

Safe in the arms of the Aen Seavherne, carried away to a different world, Ciri does not need the white wolf anymore.

 

 

# 3

 

He is among the first to leave the deep. The air in the caves is stale, he cannot breathe. His eyes sting.

“Witcher.”

The emperor’s voice. His heart burns white with hatred. Yearning. On the mountain top, beyond the dead oak, they stand.

“You will kill the crone. You will bring me her head.” More orders.

“And if I don’t?” he growls, impotently.

“Then I have no more use for you alive. Men have died for far less than your betrayal, witcher.”

Only for a second, the controlled exterior slips. Their rage for another is equally lethal. Emhyr does not jest. Among dozens of soldiers, the witcher forgoes to test that hypothesis.

 

A month later, he drags the weavess’ head into a throne room that makes the palace in Vizima look like a sty. If the head leaves a few stains on the floor, he does not care.

“For once, you have served me well enough.”

But irrespectively, Emhyr makes him stay: the hard way. The witcher is informed that he was promised his life, not his comfort, peace, or freedom. The manacles around his neck, wrists, and ankles are testament to that. It seems that Emhyr has stopped caring about pleasing his daughter. Geralt gets the impression this is about revenge. Perhaps it is simply about punishment. Perhaps, he comes to think later, it is about a need to tear each other apart that has been festering between them for a very long time.

 

A week into his imprisonment, Emhyr comes to his cell. There are no witnesses when he burns the seal of the golden sun into Geralt’s hip. In the days that come, the witcher regrets his stamina and healing capacity. Emhyr’s lackeys test both – thoroughly. When his arms are eventually released from the chains that keep him erect (dangling), he does not regain the feeling in them for several hours. Even then, his grip is shaky and weak.

It takes a few days in which he is left alone. He heals. He starves. Then Emhyr pays him another visit. The witcher does not break from pain, but when Emhyr draws his helpless body into his lap, and offers the bottle to him, Geralt drinks. His stomach rebels when he is too greedy. Horror overcomes him when Emhyr wipes his sick-stained mouth with a damp cloth, and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. Then he begins to feed him anew, occasionally rubbing his cramping stomach.

“You stole my child from me. Now you will compensate me.”

The emperor leaves him alone in the dark.

 

 

# 4

 

Geralt receives no food but from Emhyr’s hands, and the emperor is clever enough to restrict his diet to a level that is just enough to keep him alive. In the meantime his enhanced metabolism begins to eat away at his muscles. It is only when he is so thin that he can feel the dents between his ribs that Emhyr releases him from the cell.

 

He is brought into a plain room. The doors are locked. There is a bed and a bathtub. The latter is filled once the emperor comes to him. They bathe together, and the witcher begins to weep at the soft caresses of the fingers that gently untangle his gritty hair. A soft flannel is used to clean his skin. Everywhere. In all the hurt and sore places. Without exception.

Then it is over.

Wrapped in a large, fluffy towel, and snugly settled in the emperor’s lap, he is finally given his bottle. The fireplace casts its warmth onto his skin. On his other side, Emhyr radiates body heat. It is late when Geralt is tucked into bed. Emhyr hums a lullaby to him. Then he leaves.

 

 

# 5

 

A man in medic’s robes comes to him one morning, in the company of attendants who hold him down. Instinctively, Geralt fights when a syringe is plunged into his neck. The poison – he is sure of that – burns in his veins. It makes him weak and drowsy.

On the bright side, he is given more food. On top of his evening bottle, he finds fresh fruit in the mornings. Clean clothes are provided each day. They are all of a similar make: soft white cotton trousers and shirts. Nothing else.

The absence of chains means he does not have to soil himself anymore. Where he has been lying in his own waste for weeks, the skin is still angry red. When Emhyr comes to him at night, he brings an ointment to soothe the rashes. Geralt may have it as long as Emhyr is allowed to apply it. That is the rule, and Emhyr is nothing if not consequent. The witcher concedes, if for nothing else then out of curiosity. This days are monotonous enough. He also knows better than to antagonise the emperor.

It does not really surprise him when Emhyr slides a fingertip into his anus. With the slick cream, the burn is not too bad. The witcher adjusts to the touch. It is repeated more often, and by the time the rashes are healed he cannot hide the pleasure the touch brings him. Emhyr smiles knowingly, while the witcher feels the emperor’s hardness poking against his leg. One evening Geralt particularly pleases him with the return of affectionate kisses and Emhyr wraps a hand around his straining cock and finally lets him come. Geralt weeps with release, seeking the emperor’s lips for a feeling of security. For feeling cared for. He blushes, but Emhyr does not let him indulge in shame.

“Geralt,” he whispers his name that night. The witcher lies curled in his arms, almost asleep. Something in the emperor’s voice sounds like grief.

 

 

 

# 6

 

When he wakes in the morning, a full breakfast is waiting for him, together with a steaming bath and his gear. Once fed, he dresses and tries the door handle. It opens. He steps out into an unfamiliar set of rooms. They are beyond ostentatious, and devoid of living beings except one. Following the familiar scent, the witcher finds the emperor sitting in a chair in his nightgown. A bottle of wine laced with something stronger is open and empty on a table beside the man.

“My servants are under instruction to take you out of the palace and set you free, no matter the circumstances under which they find us.”

They both know it’s a lie. Where civilisation thrives on the dirt of humanity, justice must be had.

Emhyr reaches out and uncorks a second bottle. It is little more than a vial, but the strong smell reaches the witcher’s nostrils immediately. The sap of the black lotus is as pungent as it is deadly. Without hesitation, Emhyr tips the vial to his lips and swallows. Geralt lets him, supressing the urge to lunge for the poison.

He cannot speak. Inside him a war is being waged. When he sinks down on his knees before the emperor, he knows he has both lost and won. Softly, he presses his lips to the man’s hands. Then he unties the belt of the robe, letting the fabric drift away. He knows they have about half an hour left before the emperor’s heart will stop beating.

Carefully, he drags the naked emperor into his arms, and into the bath. There he sits down against the high end of the tub, and opens his arms. With empty eyes, Emhyr curls up against him. The witcher has no bottle to feed him with, so he offers the man a fingertip instead. Emhyr accepts it, quietly nestling down against the witcher’s chest. Lost in the empty space of his head, Geralt listens to the emperor’s heartbeat as it begins to slow.

 

 

The guards find them later. Too late. Again.

The water of the bathtub is stained deep red, the shards of a bottle still lying on the floor beside it. The emperor sleeps in the witcher’s arms, wrists slashed, eternally.

 

 

 

# 7

 

The sun sets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

-the end-


End file.
